My Underground
by Tahti
Summary: Jack in captivity, at his very lowest. Post 'I Do'. Features Jack, features Juliet and features very angsty smut between them, but 'Jacket' is not the word. Coming from a diehard Jater, what could it be? Oneshot.


_**Disclaimer:** Nope, not mine. About Juliet, I don't regret._

_**Warning:** Smut ahead. As in sexual content. Gets graphic enough._

_**A/N:** Yes, this is a Jacket smut fic, be warned, my fellow Jaters. It does however have strong Jate undertones and it really is mostly about Hate Sex, so don't worry, Jack is not falling for Juliet here or anything. Plain, gratuitous sex, that's all. Born from my urge to take revenge on skex. :) It features Dark Jack, too, which is simply fun to write. :)_

_It's a one-shot (definitely) and a part of my intended five-section prompt I had given myself. The prompt is to write 5 Jate(ish) fics (as short as I can possibly make them ;)) which would represent 5 basic tastes. I leave it to you to guess which is which, but I guess there's enough hints. Just a little thing born out of boredom at work. :) All five take place after "I Do", but they don't connect. I'll post one at a day._

_The title of this one is inspired by an excerpt from a song, the author of which I don't remember (Brian Molko?) and which got stuck in my head months ago:_

_"I see you found my underground, help yourself to guns and ammo; Nothing here has ever seen the light of day, I leave it in my head."_

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The soup she brings in is the same as every day. Tomato. He can smell it, but it brings no sensations, no mouth watering, no empty stomach gurgling, as he stares unseeingly into her reflection on the glass.

He hardly moves anymore, resigning himself to the slumped position on the spot where his fate had found him, back rested against the metal table, forehead rested in his roughened palm.

He hates his hands now, as much as he hates what became of him. He hates the knowledge, the skills they bear, wishing hard he could once and for good forget how to fix, how to reverse nature and fate on their tracks by force. There are things, there are beings which should never be fixed.

It all comes down to this, he thinks, moving his gaze to her fair silhouette. Everything he had learnt, all those years, everything was just a waste of time. Life wasted. That's where it got him, soundly alone with the realization that whatever he had 'fixed', he had really broken.

He wishes, he could overturn it all, take it back and just let go, follow the current and never try to swim against it, even if it meant he'd drown. But he can't, it's done, it's over with.

The click of the ceramic plate over the table startles him, and he jerks up, his body wired and tense. It probably won't be long before they come for him.

"You have to eat, Jack," she states, voice as mellow as ever, icy blue eyes as bottomless as ever, and he can't read a single thing into them. It doesn't unnerve or intrigue him, no. It only infuriates him.

Her skin is fair, almost translucent, he notices afresh. And her lips remain tight even if they attempt to curve into a faint smile. She's wearing pastel, natural fabrics, which highlight her almost luminous presence. He wonders why the luminescence is so opaque, like the event horizon on the brink of a black hole, where return is impossible from, but one can float there suspended for eternity.

Without a word, without any regard to the food she had brought, he takes her in, really looking at her for the first time possibly, he realizes.

"Don't you want to know how he's doing?"

She's bright and clear and lucid, like an incorporeal being, he decides, but she's every bit flesh and bone in the underlain cold-bloodedness and irreconcilability, but also in the ripe feminine curves of her body, in the flow of her lustrous hair, in the pink of her lips, so very human, so defiant, like a gauntlet thrown down to him.

"I don't care," he replies, and he means it.

He's past any concern about anyone, himself included, he's really reconciled himself to his own demise already. It would bring a much welcome relief, if nothing else. Empty and numb, he's got no more hopes, no fears, no expectations, no dreams. Absolute, perfect emptiness.

But there's a part of him which yearns to feel something, _anything_, pain just as welcome, if it could jam the one which keeps chewing on him from the inside, day by day, the memory he prays for to vanish just getting etched and burned into his brain like a tattoo gone wrong. It can be removed, but there'll always be a scar.

He sets his jaw as she nears him, as if challenging him to do something, to fight, to grab her and wreak his fury on her. She's close enough for him to smell the faint scent of artificial fabric softener and powdery aroma of shampoo and the weak acidulous trace of her tomato soup.

All normal, everyday scents, but already foreign to him.

This could have been Sarah, or any other civilized woman, any other he's been with, he thinks, inhaling carefully, so she doesn't notice, and hating the fact that he does it at all.

But Sarah didn't smell vile, and this woman, this _Juliet_ has a sour halo of betrayal aroma around her, of lie and manipulation.

Or is it really his mind's projection onto her? His weary mind's and his broken soul's?

He doesn't know, he doesn't even want to dig into that, he can't allow having thoughts of empathy about her. She's nothing to him.

He doesn't register it coming, but suddenly he feels another human being's warmth on the back of his hand, where he had rested it on the table top.

It's been entirely too long; he had simply forgotten the feel of skin on skin, his forearm twitches, but doesn't move his hand right away when her pale slender fingers cover his own. She flicks them gently in what seems to be an absentminded manner, but could as well be quiet determination.

Another game, he thinks bitterly, she'd try anything to get to him, knowing well that he'd be shocked with a sensuous caress from her. Provoking him.

He withdraws his hand from underneath hers, but the ghost of sensation is still there and he wants to be disgusted, but he can't deny the jab of involuntarily arousal the simple touch evoked.

She moves quietly around and places her hands on his shoulders, kneading them in supposedly relaxing manner once, twice and he doesn't stop her, doesn't move when _she_ stops while her hands still linger in place.

"You should eat," her voice calm and soft, but lacking her previous insistence, and he's once again at a loss about her true intentions.

Shutting his eyes tight, he wishes so much never to have got on that plane. Never to have persuaded the assistant to let him in. Never to have succumbed to his mother's demands. Then he would never be forced to make choices like he had to, he'd never have met _her_, Kate.

He'd never have to feel so hopeless and alone as he does now, he'd never allow his rage to take over ever again.

But nothing has changed when he opens his eyes again to the obscure green lighting; why would it.

Her hands still rest over his shoulders, and she's sliding them underneath his t-shirt now, tracing his collarbones with her thumbs.

It takes him by surprise, but not as much as it should probably do, his focus zeroing on the feel of her cool skin against his own and how wrong it is to get pleasure out of it, and that someone is probably watching.

On an impulse, he grabs her wrist and stands up, turning around to face her.

He doesn't even try to read her face, her expression impenetrable, and he wonders, suddenly angry, why she's doing it, what exactly they want of him, and how far she'll push it.

Her eyes seem to study him with equal astonishment when he doesn't let go of her wrist, but pulls her closer and grabs her by the hip.

What will she do, he wonders briefly, will she let him make her think that he'd overpower her, use her, will her façade finally slip?

He slides his hand down over her ass and with a rough squeeze pulls her tight against his body. A small surprised gasp makes him think, she'll wriggle out soon enough, but she doesn't, and his heartbeat quickens, oblivious to the conscious resolutions of his mind.

She's soft and yielding and she's a breezily smelling female body, and he didn't feel a female body against his for months now, so he feels himself begin to harden, the blood pulsing in his veins, as his hand loosens over her buttocks, roaming the curvy flesh of its own volition, tracing the hollow, and dipping to in between her thighs, thinking how warm, how hot she must be there underneath the fabric layers and how he longs to feel that human, female warmth around him…! Just for a little while, just for a few moments…And pretend he's not alone.

_No, she's not another human_, his inner voice snaps, just as he registers her leaning even closer into him, bringing her free hand to touch his cheek, gently, almost affectionately, and it shocks him more than the fact she's responsive to him at all.

The look in her pale eyes has never changed and the studied smile plays across her lips, but he can tell that she's not into it for some power battle, not for an experiment.

She wants it, wants him, and it agitates him, twisting all his muscles in tense knots.

As if to prove him right, she leans up aiming for his lips and he ducks away jerkily. He won't kiss her, or let her do that. Whatever is going to happen has nothing to do with desire for closeness, not with her.

A quick flash of disappointment crosses over her features, gone as soon as it shows, and she regains her mask of indifference, even pressed so intimately against him. She seems to understand and doesn't try it again.

It's as if her body is disconnected from her head, or at least the insipid stare into his eyes, as she maneuvers her hand underneath the back of his jeans, mimicking his actions and squeezing his bare ass, urging him closer.

Her breath is warm against his neck and he can't help the goose bumps forming there. Silently, he backs her up until she's trapped between the table and his body. Unceremoniously, he grabs the hem of her shirt and pulls it over her head, not bothering with the buttons, curious of her reaction. She doesn't protest, assisting him instead by raising her arms. He still doesn't have the slightest idea _why_ and why now, but he can't honestly say that he cares much.

She's here and she's letting him forget just for a little while. She's letting him vent his anger, his hurt, his desperation. She lets him feel them again, even if that's all he has left to feel.

Her skin is pale, so much paler than Kate's, he thinks and winces, for this is _not_ about Kate, it should never be.

Kate is gone, and he should never had let her into his heart in the first place, but now he _must_ forget her, let her go, let her be happy with whomever she chooses to. However painfully it rips his heart into pieces. No, it has already happened. He doesn't have a heart anymore.

But he can't really help the comparison, taking in Juliet's fair locks, her azure eyes, the spotless complexion. He runs his hand over her stomach, momentarily losing himself in the sensation of the smooth, warm texture underneath his calloused fingers.

She seemed so composed at all times, that he perceived her as somewhat asexual, and is now being taken aback with a soft moan and her head falling backwards upon his palms cupping her breasts through the fabric of a simple white bra.

Unclasping the garment and moving it out of his way, he touches her breasts, slowly at first, mesmerized by the sight of his darker hands over the pale flesh, by the way her pink nipples tighten, complying to his purposeful movements, and then he grabs them fully, harshly, his need for release painful within the confines of his jeans, as she moans louder now and presses herself up into his touch.

He's been here before.

He fucked women for all the wrong reasons, no meaning behind it, except to kill the numbness of his hurting soul.

He has been the subject of such fucking too, he recalls sourly, the memory from a long journey suddenly vivid in his mind. What a cruel twist of fate, he observes, remembering the woman and how she distanced herself from him while he wanted nothing more than to get to her and hoped he could do so with his body if the words failed.

For good or for bad, he never succeeded, and Juliet's not going to succeed either, he knows it.

He feels her leg flying up and over his hip, and the position means his now rock hard cock rubs against her centre and he suddenly loses all coherent thought, blood rushing to his groin, and he's sure there's no return from here, that he _needs to_, _has to_ have her, even if he'd need to force her.

But that's not an option, with the willing participant she is, and how she's tugging on his jeans now, alternating with efforts to discard him of his t-shirt. He does take it off in one swift motion, if only for her to stop pulling on it, which he finds annoying.

She gasps and tries to press herself against his bared chest, her arms locking around his neck, and he allows it before realizing it's too close, too intimate, and he doesn't want it, not with her. Pushing her away, he notices another quick flash of hurt in her blue eyes, but dismisses it; he does not care for this woman, nor does she care for him. It's just an act. A biological process. Nothing more, nothing less.

He backs away slightly to unzip her pants and push them down enough so he could part her knees and feel for her readiness. She is, her underwear all damp and soaked. Glad to find her so, he cups her through the fabric, and she sighs and leans into him again, and he finds it intriguing to watch her eyes close in pleasure and her control slip.

Or does it really?

Suddenly, he feels an urge to make her come, even if he didn't give a damn seconds ago. He wants to see if she's able to surrender to the feeling, wants to see the guards down, see if she is, after all, only human.

So he supports her back with one arm, and keeps rubbing her with the other hand through her underwear at first, and then moves to underneath it, to connect with the hot, dripping folds of her flesh. He feels his painfully hard cock twitch instinctively and knows he won't last much longer, as he works her, watching her face intently all the time, and she returns his defiant stare until she can't anymore, and she does give up and into him, nearing her release, milking his fingers which pump steadily inside.

And then he stops, aware of his newly gained supremacy, knowing that her body will be ready for anything he wanted out of it, as long as he promises to bring it to the release he had so abruptly denied her. It feels obnoxiously good to have that power over her, the one thing he can control now.

He's not disappointed when her eyes flutter open wide, and she stills briefly in shock and disbelief, but the tables are turned for a moment when he feels her hand grasping him through his jeans, and he lets himself give into her seduction as she sets the rhythm of massaging movements over his eager length. She knows exactly how to do it, so unexpected from her, he thinks, but then again what does he know about her? She's a foreign, unknown territory, but he's fine with leaving it just as is, he doesn't _want_ to know anything about her, he _chooses_ not to want it.

Attentive and alert in spite of himself, he watches, his gaze following her hand as it is freeing his cock from his clothing deftly and allows his eyes shut upon flesh connecting with flesh. Wrong and inapt, but he wants it, he wants inside her, he needs the pretence of control, and he clenches his teeth when she tugs on his pants and then he's taking over, pushing her hand aside roughly and pulling his cock completely out of its restraint. He needs it. He needs to push into the wet heat and forget.

She seems to follow him, discarding her khakis completely, and her legs attempt to encircle his hips as she sits up on the table, but he pulls her back down, to rid her of the wet panties, and ends up tearing them off of her in impatience, aware that if he stops just for a heartbeat, he'd change his mind, conscience kicking in to bring remorse and disgust and guilt.

That's not what he needs right now, sniffing on her arousal openly, startled with the primal headiness of it and how it goes straight into his cock and chases away all doubt, pure animal instinct replacing any ambition of nobility.

He doesn't look at her face when he takes hold of himself and probes at her centre, seeking the tight opening he knows lays hidden in between the spread flushed folds. Like petals, he notices, dewy petals of a venomous flower which threatens of destruction and yet he doesn't want to resist, he wants to invade her and push far and hard enough to convince both of them that he will never give in and that _she_ is the defeated one.

One firm thrust up and he's inside, enveloped by slick burning heat and he can hear his own low grunt as the sensation overwhelms him.

He glances at their joining, a tangle of coarse hair, dark and fair, her pinky soft flesh as swollen and fevered as his tan hardness, and he watches through narrowed eyelids as his cock disappears inside, claiming submission out of her, even if he knows it's all fake.

He's setting up a rhythm, refusing to feel anything but the delicious tightness of her body as it milks him every time he withdraws, only to come back harder, stronger, with more determination, and he hears a whimper escaping her mouth, and looks up at her, seeing her eyes trained firmly on his face, while her legs go up again, to lock around him.

It unnerves him. Too close.

He doesn't want her searching his eyes, he doesn't want the reminder of who she is, doesn't want her touch him, the less contact the better.

So he pulls out and brings her down from the table, pushing at her shoulder to signal his intention, telling her to _turn around,_ those being the only words spoken between them, and she complies, he takes note, somewhat surprised.

If she didn't, would he force her?

Pushing the nauseating qualm to the back of his head, he bends her over the surface, his lips parting in awe as he takes in the inviting creamy curves of her ass and grabs handfulls of the soft flesh, sliding his palms up, following the shape of her waist, grinding himself into her, the sensation more powerful in its carnality than any of his conscious aversion to her.

Parting her thighs further up, he finds her entrance once again and comes back inside forcefully, watching her hands grip the edge of the table until her knuckles turn white.

She's breathing heavily but is otherwise silent, and he wonders briefly if he's hurting her, so he stops, giving her time to adjust to the new angle that brings him deeper inside than before. He doesn't really know what is driving him to do that, for it's not care; he should really want to hurt her, and he does, but he knows that physical pain will never be good enough; he wishes she could feel as empty a shell as him, if she can feel anything at all.

Whether she realizes his motivations or not, there's not a single sign of complaint or protest from her, she makes no move to back off, no. Instead, she arches up into him in encouragement and he resumes his steady thrusting, holding onto her hips tightly, pushing up harder and fiercer each time, feeling her stretching around him, clamping and pulsing and suddenly each and every woman he has ever been with bursts out from his memory, tugging at him, breathing in his ears, running their hands over his body.

He hears them all whispering his name, soft and high-pitched voices overlapping. His wife, and his college sweetheart, and the girl he lost his virginity to, and the one who never let him in, but was so passionate, he thought she'd really leave with him. And the nameless chicks he fucked at his lowest, when Sarah left him and whose names he doesn't even remember.

And Kate.

Always her; being with her in that way so carefully carved by his imagination that it feels like a memory.

This should be _her_ accepting his intrusion, this should be _her_ pooling warmth around him, this should be _her_ wordless gasps of pleasure, and he'd give her all of himself, everything she wanted, any way she wanted it. He'd pull her up and crush her against him, never being able to get close enough, and he'd want to look in her eyes all through this, and would want to kiss her lush lips until they are swollen and flushed, and he'd tell her with his body how he never meant for her to leave, how sorry he was for all that happened to her, and how he wanted to be there for her, always.

But it's too late.

This is not her and never will be. No amount of furious pounding into that lithe body against his will ever change it.

Her head rests on the table sideways and her eyes are shut, as she brings one clenched fist to her mouth, to clamp her teeth around it as if keeping from crying out. He reaches over to find her clit and starts rubbing her in time with his thrusts, determined to make her come, if only to prove his power over her.

He's pumping her fast now, buried down to the core, feeling the familiar twitching of his cock and he knows he's close, it's been too long, it's not going to last, and he doesn't want it to, the release being all he needs.

He doesn't have to wonder if she'd make it, because he's feeling her tighten around him and her hips give several reflexive bucks up, and her body arches from the table, but she's still silent, chewing on her own hand, and he speeds up, needing to let loose, needing to exhaust himself and bring the temporary satiation; it won't be for long, he knows it, but he'll take whatever is offered, thankful for the shortest while of oblivion.

And that's it; his brain shuts down as his body jerks up further into hers, his balls tight to the point of pain, his cock swollen and over-reactive, and then the pain is dissolving, exploding into momentarily delight which ripples through his body in several thundering waves, tripping his knees and drawing out a groan from his very insides.

For these few precious seconds his mind is deliciously blank, he thinks nothing, he feels nothing except for the ecstatic throb of his cock as his seed spurts into her in sticky beads.

Breathing hard, he finds support in the cold metal surface, bracing his arms on it, not to collapse over her sweaty back, now raising and falling in spent rasps.

A sandy strand stuck to an ivory shoulder snaps him back to reality.

Just like that, it's all gone, the pure physical pleasure subsiding quickly under a mixture of repulsion and guilt and shame and quickly rising anger.

Taking a few laboured breaths, he lets his head drop, pulling out of her roughly and tucking his still half-erect member back into his jeans, stepping away into the corner of his dim cell.

He can taste acid on his tongue and feels his stomach revolt, as one thought creeps in.

By doing what he did, by fucking her mindlessly, he somehow brought himself level with her, stepped willingly into the bog and proved to be no better than her. She won. They did.

He can hear her dressing unhurriedly but doesn't turn to look, not once.

"Why?" he says into the concrete wall, rubbing his forehead, the thumping ache forming in his temples.

"I have my reasons, you have yours," her calm voice reaches him from a distance seemingly bigger than the several feet between them.

And he doesn't know any more about her than he did half an hour ago.

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_Love it? Hate it? Please do let me know what you think. _

_I'm personally at a loss as to whose side Juliet is really on, that's why I wrote her ambiguously and focused on (Dark) Jack instead (which was quite a challenge in itself!)._


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